Road Map
by Missie DuCaine
Summary: CSI/Buffy. Sequel to "Lost". Apparently evil blonde men with cheekbones of doom can kill you. Who knew?


"Wake up."

"Nnngh... go 'way." Greg groaned, swatting at whoever was punching him in the shoulder. "Le' me 'lone..."

"Well, you're conscious, and not jumping up to rip my 'ead off, that's a good sign." A strong English accent grated in his hungover-feeling ears, disdainful and sarcastic. "Now wake up, ya little git. We gotta get inside."

"Dun wanna." Greg slurred, rolling over, grumbling when rolling over caused him to roll over crinkling wrappers, and a few oddly shaped bottles.

"Nope. Up an' at 'em. _Now_."

Greg howled, leaping off the back seat of the car – and when had he ended up on the back seat of a car anyway? – and snarled at the blonde idiot sitting in the front seat, smirking at him. "You pinched me!"

"It worked, didn' it? Besides... nice face." He reached out, running his fingers over Greg's face.

"Hey! My face! You're the pervert guy! The sexual perversion guy!" Greg yelped, then clapped his hand over his mouth – he sure as hell hadn't meant to say that.

He smirked. "Someone's got a case of the talkies." Reaching out again, he trailed his fingers over Greg's face again, and this time, Greg didn't move. For one _very_ specific reason.

"Uh... my face feels weird."

"Heh." The blonde laughed cheerfully. "I'd offer you a mirror, but that won't help you at all. See, ya can't see yerself anymore. So... take this..." his face suddenly shifted, as though his face was the earth, and the tectonic plates were shifting, shoving the bones into new places, creating a thicker, almost Neanderthal forehead, cheekbones into new, even sharper relief. His eyes became dark hollows, shining a sick, dull yellow out at him, and he bared his teeth, far too sharp and dangerous, designed for ripping and tearing. "...and put it on your own face. S'what you look like now. Only... smoother. Heh. Ye look like a blonde Dru. All girly an' shit."

Greg yelped, tugging back from the other again. "I am _not_ girly!" he protested loudly, voice cracking embarrassingly.

He snickered. "Sure ye ain't."

Reaching up, Greg ran his fingers over his own face, biting his lip anxiously as he traced the new, strange planes. Most of him, the logical, rational part of him, wanted an explanation. He wasn't sure what that explanation was going to be, but he knew there had to be one. People's faces don't just _change_, don't just create new planes and angles and apparently new bones. But another part of him, a part that used to read scary novels in the dark under his blankets with a flashlight, and still read comics whenever he didn't think Nick or Warrick or someone could make fun of him, knew that there was something more to this than pure science.

He swallowed, looking up at the oddly attractive blonde man, whose strange bone shapes had disappeared again to make him look... well, not normal, but quite attractive. "What did you do to me?"

"Turned ye. Made you... one of my own."

"Uh huh." He nodded, slowly, and reached up, carefully pushing at his forehead, focusing on trying to get rid of his strange facial... irregularities. After all, if the other could do it... under his fingers, the bones seemed to shift away, and he could feel the normal, smooth naturalness of his face. "Ah... much better."

"Right. I made a good choice." The blonde smirked predatorily. "Cute piece of ass, place in Vegas, good job with plenty of nightlife... and 'e's good at this shit without even bein' trained. Oh, yeah, I got myself a good childer."

"Childer?"

"Childe. Makes me yer sire, blondie. Speakin' of... what was yer name again?"

Greg blinked. "Greg. Sanders. Why am I _telling_ you things?!"

"I toldja, you got a case of the talkies. Dunno if there's a technical term or any o' that Watcher mumbo jumbo... s'what I call it. The shock o' bein' dead, its still new, so ya got... what's Red call it... verbal diarrhoea. Give it a few more days."

He blinked. "_Dead_?"

The other leaned forward, beaming like the cat who'd just got the canary, and now was pleased as hell to announce to the family that he'd gotten it by dropping it on the master of the house's dinner plate. "Dead. Vampires ain't alive, _Greg_."

"Vampire."

He blinked.

"Yep." The bleach blonde man said calmly.

"Huh. Somehow... I don't feel as surprised as I probably should." He took a deep breath, and heaved a deep sigh. "I think I'm repressing."

"Mm-hmm."

"Oh, um..." Greg shifted a little, feeling like he should whip out a notepad and start taking notes. Shame he didn't have one on him. "Who are you? Do you have a license? Criminal record? Any warrants out for your arrest?"

"Spike, no, probably, and who give a flying fuck." He smirked. "Now. Pet. Tell me, where do you live?"

Greg gave him a look of affronted horror. "I'm not going to tell you that!"

"Ya really ought to... less you want to _fry_ in the sun. Cause... I _will_ kick ya out o' the car. I sheltered ya for three days, an' ya weren't even entertaining durin' that time. So tell me where we leave."

"We?"

He nodded. "We. You. And me. Sire, and childer. So. Where do we live, before I kick ya out, and ya burst into flames?"

Greg sighed. _The guy's already kissed me. And killed me. S'not much more he can do, sexual pervert and serial killer or not._

"Turn left at the next intersection."


End file.
